


The Art of Letting Go

by redpantsandjam (fullonzombae)



Series: The AGRA Files [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, I'm sorry. everyone suffers, M/M, Post HLV, i can't remember how far along mary was supposed to be so i've probably altered that time line, john still has trust issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-28
Updated: 2014-05-28
Packaged: 2018-01-26 22:42:36
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1705232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fullonzombae/pseuds/redpantsandjam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Following the events of His Last Vow, Sherlock and John lose contact once more. However, the strain of Mary's past is beginning to catch up with John.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Letting Go

There were times that Sherlock Holmes would forget John Watson was no longer his. 3am, as his fingers longed for the familiar weight of his violin, and the old excuses he used to fill the flat with a soothing melody; a nightmare, the sound of tossing and turning from upstairs as John battled yet another round of insomnia. 9:30am, when he would slide the newspaper across the dining table, expecting it to reach John, but instead was greeted with the sound of paper falling to the floor. 11pm, as he stepped out of the shower and looked down at the oval scar that adorned his lower chest, as he tried to remember if he had imagined John’s vigil by his bedside during those first few nights.

And then came the evenings when, having completed a case, Sherlock would forget that John – his John – was no longer waiting for him at home. He’d return with their usual takeaway, only to find himself stood in the kitchen with a prawn curry in hand.

Sherlock Holmes had always despised seafood.

Sometimes the left over Chinese became an experiment. The calorific content of the curry from Baker Street, compared to what he occasionally brought back from Baiwei. It was as if those numbers – the extra nineteen calories in the latter – may explain just why John hadn’t been back in three weeks and five days.

There were times he wanted to call John and tell him just what had been found on that memory stick. But he had further promised John that everything he had found would be kept from the doctor, no matter how much he begged for the truth. It was that secret that lingered on the tip of his tongue, and keeping it meant that Sherlock would tear himself apart. Spilling it, however, would destroy John.

Slowly, the weeks turned into months. The takeaway containers piled up. And the violin remained untouched.

* * *

 

John hadn’t expected his life to turn into this. Antenatal appointments, domesticity and lies.

As he watched the blue fuzz across the screen, he could feel Mary’s breath hitch, the cold of the gel catching her off guard. A gentle squeeze of her hand to reassure her, and John’s gaze flicked down to her rounded abdomen.

“What’s your date of birth, Mrs Watson?” The sonographer placed the wand on Mary’s stomach, her focus on the screen as the lines moved, revealing the life that was forming inside Mary. Thirty-two weeks down, eight to go.

“October 19th, 1972,” Mary repeated, not a quiver to her voice. After all, her lies were rehearsed. Learned by rote. John’s jaw clenched as he wondered just how far apart her birthdays lay. The same week? Month? Year?

“Have you picked out any names yet?” A chuckle rose from Mary, her hand moving to her stomach as a foot protested against the intrusion.

 _If I had one word of advice for my unborn daughter,_ John thought as he watched the movement, wanting to share the humour, _it would be not to believe a word her mother tells her._

“Emily. John likes the name Emily,” Mary explained, as John’s expression remained stoic, taking in the stats on the screen.

_We might call her Emily, but what if that’s not who she is? What if, in thirty years, she is unrecognisable to us? Lost._

The sonographer looked over at John as she wiped down Mary’s stomach, removing the excess gel. “Well, everything’s looking fine there, Mrs Watson. We’ll see you back in four weeks,” she said, balling up the paper towel and tossing it into the bin. “Now. Would you like this photo too?”

John didn’t wait for Mary’s answer, instead standing and leaving the room, heading straight out towards the car park. He knew Mary’s excuse for him would be a fabrication at best.

_He hasn’t been sleeping._

* * *

Of course they’d argued. Well, if one could call it arguing.

It had started with a silent drive home, and then a few simple words.

_You could have at least pretended you wanted to be there._

John’s answer came with the slamming of the door.

As he stormed into the house, Mary followed him, her hand rested under her bump as she slammed the front door behind her.

“Don’t walk away from me, John,” she hissed, following him as he headed into the living room. She tilted her head, watching as he poured himself a scotch, dropping her bag on the sofa. “Do you want to tell me what your problem is?”

“My problem?” John laughed, the bitterness coating his throat as he tipped the whiskey down his throat. “My problem, Mrs Watson, is that you don’t even flinch when you lie.” He poured himself another glass, not even able to look at her. “My problem, is that I married you under the pretence I knew you.”

In the confines of their own home, Mary could let the mask drop, listening as John rattled off a list of her wrongdoings, and for a fleeting moment, she found herself wishing Sherlock had died that night at Magnussen’s office. Her past would have remained buried, deep within Sherlock’s chest.

_Oh Sherlock, darling. Don’t take it to heart._

“You told me that we were putting this behind us, John.”

John tensed as she spoke, swallowing down another tumbler of whiskey, before slamming it down on the windowsill.

“He flatlined, Mary. Never told you that, did he?” John dragged the back of his hand over his mouth as he glared at her, that tell-tale angry smile on his features. “The doctors were going to give up on him. My best friend almost died, Mary. And look whose fault that was.”

The silence cut down the middle of the room like a knife, leaving John’s words dangling in the space between them. That happened a lot these days.

“See?” John reached for his jacket after a few minutes, tugging it on and stepping closer to Mary. “Even now, you can’t apologise, can you? Can’t bring yourself to show any remorse for what you did. As long as you have me, you’re happy, right?”

He didn’t wait for the answer, instead zipping up his jacket and pushing past her. Mary closed her eyes, steadying herself for the slamming of the door.

* * *

In the grand scheme of things, Sherlock found times and dates to be meaningless. It didn’t matter whether he retreated to bed at 11pm, or 3am. And tonight, he didn’t care for the time when he heard the knocking on the front door. But he hadn’t expected to find a drunk John Watson on his doorstep, and he hadn’t expected for John to collapse into his arms, sobbing, the moment he’d stepped inside.

“Where did you put my chair this time?”

Sherlock picked up the two mugs, moving into the living room, and handing one to John. Of course the doctor would start with the obvious questions, and in response, Sherlock sipped at his tea, moving over to the sofa.

“Bedroom,” he mumbled, sinking back into the cushions as John joined him, the hot liquid scorching his throat.

“Why are you here, John?”

“Why not?”

“You haven’t been here in several months. Then you turn up, drunk and distressed. Why are you here?”

More silence. Sherlock stared down at the ripples in his mug, steadying himself for three possibilities.

The first possibility involved an explanation, with words falling from John’s lips, muddled and slurred. But then, John had never been one for discussing what troubled him, no matter how inebriated he was.

The second possibility involved a continuation of the silence, John sobering up somewhat and then returning home.

The third was the most likely, given how often it had happened in the past three years alone. Sherlock would speak again, then look to his left, expecting an answer, only to find he was still alone.

He hadn’t prepared himself for the hand that came to rest on the back of his neck, nor the one that lifted his mug from his hands and placed it on the coffee table. He hadn’t expected to find John’s forehead pressed against his. And he hadn’t expected to feel John’s breath against his lips.

“Why are you the only person I can trust?”

“I…What?” Sherlock blinked, pulling back ever so slightly. “John, I am hardly a parable of trustworthiness.”

“Shut up.” John’s grip tightened slightly, before tugging Sherlock closer still. “Just… I know you. I know that you… Sherlock Holmes, you fix things… Somehow.”

Sherlock could feel his own heart racing, his lips running dry as John moved close enough that the detective feared he may cut off his air supply completely.

“John, you’re drunk,” he pointed out quietly, bringing his hand up to John’s wrist, gently tugging it down. “You should probably sleep this off. Go home to Mary in the morning. I’ll let her know you’re safe.” With that, Sherlock tugged his phone from his pocket, only to find it snatched from his hands.

“I don’t want to go back to her, Sherlock. Ever.”

Sherlock’s sole response came with a thumb running over John’s wrist, and a sigh leaving his lips.

“Please. It’ll be like before,” John whispered, his voice pleading. “Please, Sherlock. Just you, and me. We’ll take the cases together again.”

“Just go to bed, John.”

John’s head dropped forward, an embittered laugh emulating in his throat. “You think I’m going to sleep this off, Sherlock? I don’t know the first thing about my wife, and I’m supposed to sleep that off?”

“Just…” Sherlock closed his eyes, searching for the answer he knew John was expecting. He’d told John to trust her, and now he knew John was here for those answers. “I wasn’t lying when I told you that you could trust her,” he whispered, looking back towards John. “She was never a threat to you, and now that both Magnussen and Moriarty are dealt with, she is no longer a threat to me.”

“I don’t even know her name.”

Silence fell over the flat once more, with Sherlock standing and collecting both mugs, walking through to the kitchen and emptying the dregs into the sink. He wanted to offer John some reassurance, but instead found himself muted by the memories, remembering just how the bullet had seared as it pierced his chest.

“Right. Fine. Hint taken,” John muttered, and as he walked through to Sherlock’s room, the detective made no effort to correct him. Instead, he followed, and climbed into his own bed, rolling onto his side so that he could ignore the drunken mass beside him.

This was, by far, the cruellest of John’s tricks.

* * *

It was the sound of his mug being placed on the bedside table that woke Sherlock the next morning, and before he could open his eyes, he felt the sagging of the bed.

“I was going to make toast, but you’re out of bread. Do you even remember to eat when I’m not here?”

Sherlock turned to bury his face in the pillow, mumbling incoherently as he tried to focus, before turning back to face John.

“She’ll be wondering where you are.”

He found his words were rewarded with silence as he watched John lift the mug to his lips.

“John, she is pregnant with your child. You can’t just turn your back on her.”

“Shut up, Sherlock.”

In a rare instance of obedience, Sherlock fell silent, looking down at the hem of the duvet. Had that thread always been loose, he wondered, as he began picking in an attempt to calm himself.

“Do you know what it’s like to love someone, Sherlock, and think you know them? And then…” John closed his eyes, swallowing back tears as his knuckles whitened. Having steadied himself, he placed his own mug beside Sherlock’s turning to look at the detective. “I want to see the scar.”

“What?” Sherlock blinked, his brow furrowed as he looked up at John, the concern painted across his features. “John, I don’t…”

“Please.”

A silent nod, and Sherlock tugged off his t-shirt, balling it in his hands. It was times like this that he felt as if the wound had been torn open once more, under the scrutiny of John’s stare. But he hadn’t prepared himself for the feeling of John’s fingers against his skin, brushing over the sliver of skin. He watched as John shook his head, his own tongue flicking out over his lips in contemplation. “It no longer hurts.”

“Don’t lie to me, Sherlock,” John whispered, his weight shifting on the bed as he looked up at him once more. “Just… No more lies. Please.”

Sherlock nodded, closing his eyes as he rested against the headboard.

“You… I thought we’d lost you at one point,” John started, his gaze falling back to the scar. “Your heart stopped. Just before we got to the hospital.”

“You know me to be far more stubborn than that.”

A response came with the meeting of lips that even Sherlock couldn’t have foreseen.

Perhaps John needed this, he thought to himself as he pulled John closer, his lips parting as he allowed John to deepen the kiss. Tilting his head back as John straddled him and hovered over him, Sherlock closed his eyes and allowed himself to forget, for just a fleeting moment, that John wasn’t his to savour. For those glorious few seconds, Mary Watson had ceased to exist.

But then, memories came flooding back, and Sherlock pulled back, breaking off the kiss. “John, stop,” he whispered, turning away, feeling the doctor sag slightly in defeat. “I’m sorry. I… Just go.”

Without protest, John stood, his head bowed as he reached for his jacket, refusing to meet Sherlock’s gaze.

_It would break him, and I would lose him forever, and Sherlock, I will never let that happen._

Sherlock buried his face in his hands as he tried to fight back memories of Mary’s words, tried to fight the fear that should John leave Mary and return to him, then it may result in far worse  than a bullet to the liver. He watched as John left the bedroom, before reaching for his own t-shirt and following the doctor.

“You know why we can’t be together, John.”

“John, I’m sorry.”

More silence.

“Just what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“What are you supposed to do?” John spun around to face Sherlock, his eyes full of betrayal. “Stop letting me down, Sherlock. Stop holding back every time I get the slightest hint of sentiment from you. Let me decide just who I want to be with. Do that, can you?”

This time, it was Sherlock who fell silent, his gaze dropping to the floor as he tried to search for the answers John wanted. His fists balled slightly, feeling as if his world was spinning. He opened his mouth a few times, an attempt at speech, to find instead that his words had abandoned him. Just feet away from him, his answer came in John’s voice.

“Right. Of course you can’t. Your way. As always.”  

As the door slammed with John’s departure, Sherlock stood in an almost stunned silence, bringing his fingers up to his lips as if to commit the feeling of John’s kiss to memory.

_No, John. It was never my way._

Moving to the window, he watched as John carried on down Baker Street, knowing that he wouldn’t be heading back to Mary any time soon. But all the same, Sherlock feared this may be the last time he’d see John. He couldn’t be the axe that severed John’s marriage, no matter how much he wanted him to himself. Yet he knew that, were he to stay in London, there would always be that risk.

Pulling out his phone, he paced the flat, his brow set in contemplation. Sherlock knew that he had to give John the best chance of normalcy. And that would never come whilst Sherlock was in London. Listening to the ticking of the clock in an attempt to calm his racing heart, he dialled Mycroft’s number.

“I’ll take Eastern Europe.”


End file.
